


Lost and Found

by warblegarble



Series: Lost and Found [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Mind Meld, Mpreg, Out of Character, Psychic Bond, Soul Bond, Soulmates, Telepathic Bond, Telepathy, feeling!sherlock, observant!John, sharing of abilities
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-01
Updated: 2012-09-25
Packaged: 2017-11-11 05:35:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/475077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/warblegarble/pseuds/warblegarble
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dr. John Watson had given up finding his soulmate, until chance intervened.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Nightmares

**Author's Note:**

> The next update hopefully will be soon, but my carpal tunnel is acting up, so typing is terribly difficult. Sorry in advance for any delays.  
> -S

I bolted awake, breathing heavily, then flopped back onto my pillow. Another night, another nightmare. I couldn’t remember what it was about. Only unmated people who would soon meet their soul mate or people who had undergone recent traumatic situations got nightmares. Since I had just returned from the war after being shot in the shoulder, the latter was most likely the case.

I glanced at the clock: 5:30 am. Groaning, I rolled out of bed and limped to the kitchen. My mind drifted as the water boiled. Part of me still wished that my nightmares were due to a mate, but I refused to get my hopes up. I was a 35-year-old man with a bum leg and gunshot wound to the shoulder. I had just spent 10 years as an army doctor in Afghanistan. There was no reason to think that I would meet my mate now.

Several hours later, I found myself walking through the park by my flat on my way from my government-mandated therapy session (“Write a blog, John. I promise it will help.”). It was a relatively nice day in April, and the park was filled with people. One of those people smiled at me and waved me over.

“John Watson! It’s Mike Stamford, from St. Bart’s, remember?” The heavy set man held out his hand.

“Yes, of course.” I took in his suit and tie, as well as his briefcase. “Teaching at Bart’s now?”

Mike huffed a laugh as I took a seat next to him on a bench. “Yeah, couldn’t stay away. What are you up to these days? Last I heard you were somewhere getting shot at. What happened?”

I couldn’t help but twitch my left shoulder. “I got shot.”

As Mike lapsed into an uncomfortable silence, I took note of the marking on his left ring finger: twin black spirals outlined a light blue ring in the middle. I pointed at it.

“How long?”

Mike smiled, rubbing his thumb over the mating marks. “Five years. We met at a medical conference in Sydney.” Mike pulled out his phone and showed me a photo of a petite blonde woman with bright eyes the same shade as the ring on Mike’s finger. “Her name is Amy.”

I forced a smile, trying to ignore the loneliness tugging at my gut. Mike must have noticed my discomfort, or my bare ring finger, and chose to change the topic.

“So where are you living now?”

I pointed west. “Live about four streets from here in a temp flat. Been looking for a possible flat share or something, but haven’t found anything as of yet.”

Mike made a humming noise. “I’ve an acquaintance looking for a flatmate. Would you be interested in meeting him?”

I thought about it for a sec. Oh, what the hell. “Sure.”

Mike stood up and grabbed his case. “Ready?”

I stared at him. “What, now?”

Mike nodded. “I’m headed back to Bart’s, and he spends a lot of time there in the labs.”

I sighed, then climbed to my feet. “Lead on.”

 

The man standing in the middle of the lab could only be described as gorgeous. He had black curly hair and pale, pale skin. He was impossibly tall, even bent over a microscope as he was now. He glanced up as we entered the room and I got a view of high cheekbones, a pointed nose, and beautiful sea foam eyes.

“Mike, can I borrow your phone?” the man asked. I tried to resist shivering at that deep baritone voice.

Mike rolled his eyes. “What’s wrong with the landline?”

“I prefer to text.”

Mike patted down his pockets. “Sorry, left mine in my coat.”

I quickly pulled out my phone, holding it out. “Here, use mine.”

The man looked at me, surprised. “Thank you.” He reached out to take it, and our fingertips brushed.

The zap traveled from my coccyx to my brain, and then spread throughout my body. It was a feeling I had only ever heard about in sex ed classes. It was the mating spark. In that instant, I knew a bunch of things about this man. His name was Sherlock Holmes, he was 32, and was 6”1’. He was underweight at just 11st 1lb. He had an older brother named Mycroft. He worked as something called a ‘consulting detective’, a term he had personally coined. He lived at 221B Baker Street and was looking for a flatmate. He played the violin and detested sleeping.

I snapped back to reality to see Sherlock ducking his hands under the table to text on my phone. I could already see his ring forming, that strange shade of indigo that the government always listed as ‘blue’.

Sherlock’s eyes flicked up as he texted. They moved from Mike, who was across the room examining a Petri dish, to me, and back again. Ah. He didn’t want Mike to know. I shook my jumper sleeve over my left hand, covering the grey-green ring that had formed. Seeing the corner of Sherlock’s mouth turn up informed me that I had done the right thing.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

I looked up surprised. If Sherlock had undergone a mind meld similar to mine, he would most certainly know the answer to that question. I noticed Sherlock’s eyes slide over to Mike again, who was now watching us, and I understood.

“Afghanistan. How’d you know?”

He slid my phone across the tabletop and started to pull on his coat. “Do you like the violin?”

“Sorry?”

“I play the violin when I’m thinking. Sometimes I don’t speak for days on end. Potential flatmates should know the worst about one another.” He pulled on a completely unnecessary scarf.

I glanced at Mike, who just smirked and shook his head. “Who said anything about flatmates?”

Sherlock switched off the microscope. “I did. I had just mentioned to Mike this morning that I was looking for a flatmate, and here he is several hours later with an old classmate clearly just home from Afghanistan. It’s hardly a difficult leap.”

He walked towards the door. “I’m off. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary.”

“Wait!” He stopped and turned. “We’ve just met, and now we’re going to look at a flat together? When and where are we meeting? I don’t even know your name!”

He smiled. “The name is Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street. Tomorrow at 7pm.” He left.

I glanced at Mike, who grinned. “Yeah, he’s always like that.


	2. Pink!

I had just walked up the steps of 221B Baker Street when I felt Sherlock Holmes arrive. It was a strange feeling, a kind of awareness in the back of my mind. I turned around to see him stepping out of a cab.

“Oh, hello, Mr. Holmes,” I said as he walked towards me.

He rolled his eyes. “Sherlock, please.”

He opened the front door. We entered a small foyer and were greeted by a cheerful older woman.

“Mrs. Hudson, this is Dr. John Watson. John, this is Mrs. Hudson. She owed me a favor and is allowing me to rent the flat upstairs for cheap.”

“Nice to meet you, John. I live down here. Shall we head upstairs?”

Sherlock lead the way, running up the stairs while I followed him as fast as my leg would allow. He came upon a door which he opened with a flourish.

I stepped into the sitting room. It was nice with a large fireplace, leather chairs, and a matching sofa on the other side of the room. Around the corner was an attached kitchen. The whole area was covered in boxes and random bits of science equipment that I knew were Sherlock’s.

“Well this could be very nice,” I said, limping over to a chair and sitting.

“There’s another bedroom upstairs, if you’ll be needing one,” Mrs. Hudson pointed out. I hadn’t realized that she had followed us upstairs.

I wasn’t sure what to say to that, so I just nodded. Mrs. Hudson went into the kitchen and started lecturing Sherlock about the mess. Sherlock, on the other hand, had pulled off his coat and was staring out the window, completely ignoring her.

“What about these suicides, Sherlock?” said Mrs. Hudson, holding up today’s paper. “Seems right up your alley. Three in a row, isn’t it?”

Sherlock’s shoulders twitched. “Four. There’s been another one.”

His gaze shifted to the stairs just as the front door opened and someone thundered up the stairs. A man who I recognized from the papers as Detective Inspector Lestrade appeared in the door.

“Something’s changed.”

The DI nodded. “You know how none of them have left notes? Well, this one did.”

“Where?”

“Brixton. Lauriston Gardens Will you come?”

“Who’s on forensics?”

“Anderson.”

Sherlock scoffed. “Anderson won’t work with me. I need an assistant.”

Lestrade looked impatient. “Look, will you come or not?”

“Not in the car, I’ll be right behind.”

As soon as Lestrade left, Sherlock jumped up in the air with a look of childish glee on his face. “Yes! Serial Suicides!” He pulled on his coat and scarf. “Mrs. Hudson, I’ll be gone till late. Some food would be nice. John, make yourself at home and have a cuppa.”

“Not your housekeeper,” Mrs. Hudson yelled at Sherlock’s retreating back.

I sighed and listened to Mrs. Hudson putter around. The newspaper that she had dropped on the edge of the coffee table caught my eye. The leading story was about the suicides. I of course had heard about them: three perfectly happy people with no connection killing themselves all with the same poison.

I felt Sherlock return. I turned to look and found him leading against the doorframe of the flat, studying me.

“You’re a doctor.”

I resisted rolling my eyes. “Well spotted.”

“Any good?”

“Very.”

Sherlock inched closer to me. “I suppose you’ve seen a lot of death in the war.”

I nodded. “Too much.”

A glint appeared in his eye. “Want to see more?”

I let out a sigh of relief. “God yes.”

 

The cab ride to the crime scene was quiet, save for the tapping of Sherlock’s thumbs against his phone as he texted. He finally put down his phone and sighed.

“Ok, you have questions. I can practically hear you thinking.”

I decided to start with safer topics. “I checked out your website last night. You are a true genius.”

He smiled, surprised. “You think so?”

“Don’t people normally think that as well?”

The smile faded. “No. Normally people just tell me to piss off.”

He fidgeted a bit. “Look, John, you should know that the people I work with from the Yard are…less than tolerant of me. I’ve read that mates can be protective towards one another, so I thought I should warn you.”

“Ta, I think. So, how do you feel about this?” I said, referring to the mating.

He gave a Gallic shrug. “Not sure yet. Ask me later. Oh, and John, keep this a secret for now, ok?”

That bit confused me, but I nodded anyway just as the cab came to a halt. We climbed out and walked over to the crowd of police cars and yellow tape. A cocoa-skinned woman with hair to rival Sherlock’s stood at the edge of the tape.

“Hello, Freak.”

I felt my hackles rise, but Sherlock just smirked. “Donovan.”

“What are you doing here?” she asked, eyes narrowed.

Sherlock lifted the tape and stepped under. “I was invited by Lestrade. Come on, John.”

“Hold on, who’s this?” Donovan pointed at me.

“A friend,” Sherlock replied, holding the tape up.

Donovan snorted. “You don’t have any friends.”

Sherlock sighed impatiently. “A colleague, then.”

Another snort. “A colleague? How do you get a colleague?” She turned at looked at me. “Did he follow you home or something?”

I looked to Sherlock, who was still holding the tape. “Should I stay –“

“No.” He lifted the tape high enough for me to step under. Donovan just huffed, pulled out her radio, and said ‘Freak is here” into it. I glared at her back as she lead us into the flat that held the crime scene.  A man in a blue coverall exited the house just as we walked up and sneered at Sherlock.

“Anderson,” said Sherlock, eying the man with obvious distaste.

“Look, this is my crime scene, do not mess things up.”

Sherlock sniffed. “Of course not. And will your wife be away for long?”

“Oh don’t pretend you’ve figured that out,” Anderson scoffed.

“It’s just your deodorant, it’s for men.”

“Well of course it is!”

“And so is Donovan’s.” Anderson blanched. “And it’s just disappeared. Come along, John.”

Sherlock walked inside. I trailed behind, laughing my arse off. I managed to calm down as we entered a ground floor room near a set of stairs. Lestrade was finishing putting gloves on. Sherlock handed me a pair of blue coveralls.

“Put these on,” he said.

Lestrade looked blankly at me. “Who’s this?”

Sherlock pulled off his leather gloves. “He’s with me.”

“But – “ Lestrade let out a gasp. I looked up from trying to wrestle my bad leg into the coverall. Lestrade was openly staring at Sherlock’s uncovered left hand. Sherlock quickly pulled on the latex gloves.

“Not now, Lestrade. Where are we?”

Lestrade shook himself out of his shock just as I zipped up my coverall. “Upstairs.”

“Lead the way.”

Lestrade hiked us up three flights of stairs, my leg barely cooperating. We finally entered a room off the top landing. A woman lay face down in the middle of the room, her lurid pink outfit spread around her body like a cape.

“Name’s Jennifer Wilson. Local kids found her,” Lestrade said as Sherlock carefully crouched next to the body, pulling out a collapsible magnifying glass. He ran his gloved fingertips around the back of her coat. I watched him work, utterly intrigued. After several minutes, he stood and pulled out his phone.

“Got anything?” Lestrade sounded eager.

The edges of Sherlock’s mouth tilted up. “A bit.”

“She was German. _Rache_ means revenge in German.” Anderson stood in the doorway, pinted at the word that the victim had scratched into the floor.

“Yes, thank you for your input, Anderson.” Sherlock strode over and slammed it shut.

“Rachel,” I said, looking at the letters. Sherlock and Lestrade turned to look at me. “It’s the only word that it could possibly be. But why did she use the last minutes of her life to scratch it into the floor? It would have hurt, so it must have been important.”

Sherlock gave me an unreadable look. “Quite right, John.” He turned his attention back to the body. “Jennifer Wilson was unhappily married for more than ten years, judging by the state of her jewelry. Unmated, a Convience Marriage. She was a serial adulteress, searching for her mate and yet enjoying the moments when she didn’t find what she was looking for but still got sex.”

“Oh, bloody hell, how could you possibly know that?” Lestrade threw up his hands.

Sherlock pointed at the metal ring on the woman’s finger. “Outside of the ring is dirty, unlike the rest of her jewelry. The inside, however, is clean. The only cleaning it gets is when she works it off her finger. Clearly, she was in some position in the entertainment world, television most likely due the truly frightening shade of her outfit. She came up from Cardiff for the night, probably to meet a lover. The back of her coat is wet, as is the back of her collar, but the umbrella in her pocket is dry. The rain and wind were too strong to use an umbrella. Where’s the only place close enough that had strong rain and wind? Cardiff.” He held up his phone, which displayed the weather.

I couldn’t help myself. “Brilliant!”

“Are you aware you do that out loud?” Sherlock whispered to me.

I ducked my head, blushing. “Oh, sorry.”

Sherlock smiled. “No, it’s fine. Refreshing, even.”

“Anything else, Sher?” asked Lestrade, who was checking his watch.

Sherlock looked at me. “John, you are a man of science. Have a look.”

I glanced over at Lestrade, who promptly burst out, “I’m risking my neck having _you_ here, Sherlock! We have a whole team downstairs!”

Sherlock just glared. “Two minutes.”

I looked at Lestrade again. “Oh, do as he says,” he said, growling in annoyance.

I knelt down as best I could next to the body. I smelled traces of vomit and perfume. Rigor had come and gone. I examined the woman’s bleeding and torn fingernails. Ouch. I sat up and raked my gaze down the whole body.

“Anything?” Sherlock asked, crouching beside me.

“Asphyxiation. She choked to death on her own vomit. She doesn’t smell of alcohol, but since it was poison, she wouldn’t, would she?”

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitched. “Go on.”

I glanced back at Lestrade as Sherlock helped me stand. “Where’s her suitcase?”

“What?”

I pointed to the woman’s right leg. “Look at the splashes on the back of her leg. She was dragging a smallish suitcase behind her. So where is it?”

A peculiar look flashed across Sherlock’s face, but then it was gone. “John is correct, Lestrade. Where is the case?”

Lestrade shook his head. “Sherlock, there was no case.”

Sherlock began to search the sparsely decorated room. “Well, she clearly had one. So, where is it? Did she eat it?”

“What if she left it in his car?” I mused aloud.

Sherlock’s eyes widen as he turned towards me. A second later, his lips were pressed gently to mine. I could feel the bond buzzing along our connected skin, strengthening itself with skin-on-skin contact.

“I need to find that case,” Sherlock whispered, ignoring Lestrade’s spluttering in the background. “Your leg must be aching, even if it is psychosomatic. Go back to Baker Street; I’ll meet you there after I find the case.”

He stepped back from me and turned to Lestrade. “The killer has made a mistake. All serial killers eventually do.”

He flitted out of the room and started down the stairs. Lestrade and I followed. He paused on the landing between floors, looking positively giddy. “Serial suicides, and now the murderer makes a mistake!”

“What mistake?” called Lestrade.

“Pink!” And then he was gone, his absurd coat flapping behind him like a cape.

I started down the stairs as Lestrade started barking off orders to his team, who passed me on the stairs. I could feel him following me, the silence heavy with questions. When I stripped off my coverall and gloves, Lestrade grabbed my left hand.

“I’ll be damned,” he muttered. I noted that he had a complete bonding mark, the inner ring a grey-blue.

I held out my right hand. “Dr. John Watson.”

He dropped my left hand and shook my right. “Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade. I never in a million years imagined Sherlock with a mate, yet here you are. I should have suspected by the way he treated you.”

“And how is that?” I asked.

Lestrade leaned again the wall. “I’ve known Sherlock for 10 years. He is a right genius, but he doesn’t do emotions and feelings. But tonight, he _cared_ about you. I’m not even sure that he’s realized what he has done.”

He walked me to the door of the house. “Dr. Watson, Sherlock’s a great man. It is my sincere hope that with your help, he can possibly become a good one.”

I nodded, and we parted ways. I was almost to the yellow tape when I realized that I had no idea where I was.

“He left,” called the woman named Donovan. “He does that.”

“Yeah, I know. Um, where are we?”

“Brixton.”

“Right…d’you know where I can get a cab?”

Donovan held up the tape for me to step under. “Main street is that way.”

“Thanks. “ I started to walk away.

“He gets off on it, you know.”

I spun around. “Sorry?”

Donovan looked smug. “He doesn’t get paid or nothing. You know why he does it?”

I shook my head, knowing I wouldn’t like the answer.

“He’s a psychopath. And one of these days, Sherlock will be the one that puts the body there.”

I clenched my hands at my sides, gave her a brittle smile, and started to walk off.

“Stay away from Sherlock Holmes!” she shouted after me.

“Not bloody likely,” I muttered to myself.


	3. Detour

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have decided that this story is going to be the first in a series. I will update again soon. I just started school and am also suffering migraines, so writing has been tough. Please continue to bookmark and give kudos and comment. I love feedback and I love to know that people like my work.   
> ~Stef

As I walked towards the main road, I thought about what Lestrade had said about Sherlock. His words painted a picture of a cold, stoic man. I had only known Sherlock for just over 24 hours, and had spent less than 4 of them actually in his presence, but he did not seem cold at all. Sure, he was reserved with his emotions, his smiles tiny, but they were there.

I was so caught up in my thoughts that I didn’t realize I was being followed until the sleek black car pulled up right next to me. A well-dressed man jumped out of the passenger side and opened the rear door.

“Car for Dr. Watson.”

I raised my eyebrow. “I didn’t order a car.”

The man did not reply.

I debated. Something was definitely fishy about this situation. Sherlock told me to grab a cab, so he didn’t send the car; yet something about this situation reminded me of him. The man holding the door didn’t seem threatening; he was probably just a lackey following instructions, but who’s?

My curiosity got the better of me, and I climbed inside. A young woman sat at the other end of the backseat, her fingers flying over the keyboard of her phone at speeds that rivaled Sherlock’s.

“Hi,” I said as the car began moving.

She glanced up momentarily. “Hello.”

“I’m John.”

She smirked. “Yes, I know.”

“What’s your name?”

“Uh…Anthea.”

“Is that your real name?”

She looked up, rolling her eyes. “No.”

I turned my attention to the window. I was pitch dark outside now. Years away from London had chipped away at my knowledge of London streets, so even if it was light outside, I doubt I’d know where we were headed.

Almost an hour later, the car came to a halt. Anthea cleared her throat and shot a glance at me, so I opened the door and stepped out. A single man stood about 20 feet away in the middle of an empty warehouse. He wore a neat gray three-piece suit and was leaning on an unnecessary umbrella, his complete brown mating mark dark against his pale skin. What struck me most about this man, however, was that he seemed very familiar. I pondered this as I walked over the man.

“Ah, Dr. Watson. Have a seat, the leg must be killing you.”

I ignored his comment. “Who are you? And why are we here?”

“When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes, one learns to be discreet. Hence this place. Your leg must be hurting you. Sit down.”

“I don’t want to sit down,” I replied. This man was pissing me off.

He sighed. “What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?”

I felt myself tense, but fought not to show it. I plastered a confused look on my face. “I don't have one. I barely know him. I met him... yesterday.”

“And since yesterday you've moved in with him and now you're solving crimes together.”

“Who are you?”

“I am the closest thing to a friend that Sherlock Holmes has: an enemy. If you’d ask him, he’d say I was his archenemy.”

That phrase rang in my head. It sounded almost…childish. Suddenly I knew who I was talking to.

I let a smile spread across my face. “Ah, and now I see why. I wouldn’t appreciate someone keeping tabs on me either, Mycroft.”

He flinched as if I had struck him. “Let me see your left hand,” he demanded.

I was about to respond when a wave of anxiety washed through me, hot and intense and very much not mine. I swayed on my feet. Seconds later, my phone beeped. I fished it out of my pocket.

**Where are you? –SH**

I thought for a second. **Took a detour. Will be there shortly. -JW**

**I take it Mycroft wished to ‘talk’ to you?  Bastard.–SH**

I was about to type a reply when the man in question grabbed my left hand. I tried to yank it back, but he tightened his grip.

“Curious,” he muttered, turning my hand palm up. He traced the bonding ring. “Mummy will be thrilled.” He released my hand and backed up out of my space.

I pocketed my phone. “Can I go now?”

Mycroft nodded. “Tell Sherlock congratulations. Congratulations to you, as well. I’ll be in touch, Dr. Watson.” He walked off.

Anthea appeared next to me. “I’m to take you home. Address?”

“221 B Baker Street. I need to make another stop first.”

I had the car stop at my Lay-by. I packed a quick bag of clothes and toiletries, topping the bag off with my gun. I hoped that I wouldn’t need it.

An hour later, I was dropped off in front of Sherlock’s flat. My flat. _Home._

 


	4. The case and the chase

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am trying to update once a week. I did just start school again (Radiology Tech school) so I am slightly busy. Also, I have had a migraine for a week, so writing has been a bit slow. Please continue to give kudos, bookmark, subscribe, and comment. :D  
> ~Stef

I walked upstairs to find Sherlock stretched out on the sofa, fingertips steepled underneath his chin. His right sleeve was rolled up and three nicotine patches were stuck to his forearm.

I dropped my bag by the door. “I’m pretty sure you are only supposed to use one of those at time.”

Sherlock didn’t open his eyes. “Helps me think. Impossible to sustain a smoking habit in London these days. Bad news for brain work…”

“Good news for breathing,” I replied, sitting in an armchair.

Sherlock snorted lightly. “Breathing’s boring.”

“So why three patches?”

 “It’s a three patch problem.” He cracked open his eyes and glanced over at me. “Can you do me a favor?”

I quirked my eyebrow at him. “What?”

“I need you to send a text.”

I rolled my eyes. “What happened to your phone?”

“My number might get recognized; it’s on my website.”

“Is this for the case?”

I watched as Sherlock muttered under his breath for a moment. “John, there’s a card on my desk. I need you to send a text to that number.”

I sighed, but went to fetch said card. “Hold on, this is Jennifer Wilson’s card. Wasn’t that the dead woman from earlier?”

Sherlock huffed. “Yes, but that’s not important right now. Enter the number.”

I did as he asked. “Ok, now what?”

“These words exactly: ‘What happened at Lauriston Gardens? I must have blacked out. Twenty-two Northumberland Street. Please come.’”

I glanced up as I typed. “You didn’t pass out; I would have felt it.”

“What? No. No!” Sherlock launched himself off the sofa, stepped up onto and over the coffee table by the couch and went to fetch something from the kitchen. “Type it and send it. Quickly!”

I had just pressed send when Sherlock flung a suitcase onto the ottoman. A very _very_ pink suitcase. “You found it! Where was it?”

“The killer must have driven her to Lauriston Gardens,” Sherlock said. “He could only keep her case by accident if it was in the car. Nobody could be seen with this case without drawing attention to themselves, particularly a man, which is statistically more likely. So obviously he’d feel compelled to get rid of it the moment he realized he still had it. It wouldn’t have taken him more than five minutes to realize his mistake. …So I checked every back street within five minutes’ drive from Lauriston Gardens, and anywhere he could dispose of a bulky object without being observed. Took me less than an hour to find the right skip.”

“You got all that because you knew it would be pink? Amazing!”

Sherlock smiled. He pointed to the now open case. “Now look at this case. What’s missing?”

I glanced at the case. It contained one change of clothes, a pair of pajamas, some toiletries, and a paperback book. “Her mobile. She wouldn’t have left it at home, if she was constantly entertaining lovers. So where is it?”

Sherlock kissed me lightly on the forehead. “There was no mobile on the body or at the scene. And we know that she had one; you’ve just texted it.”

I felt an overwhelming sense of dread. “Sherlock, please tell me I didn’t just text a murderer.”

“You didn’t just text a murderer,” Sherlock parroted, a slightly sheepish look on his face.

I groaned and dropped my face into my hands. I jerked back upright as my phone began to ring. It was from a withheld number.

“Three hours after his last victim,” Sherlock said, “he now receives a text that can only be from her. If somebody just found a phone with a text like that, they’d ignore it. But the murderer-”

My phone stopped ringing.

“-Would panic!” Sherlock said, and slapped the lid of the suitcase shut in triumph. He leapt out of his chair and pulled on his coat.

“Where are you going?”

“ _We_ are going to Northumberland Street. It’s a five minute walk from here.”

I scrambled to follow him downstairs and outside. “Do you think he’s stupid enough to go there?”

“Nooo, I think he’s  _brilliant_  enough,” said Sherlock. “I love the brilliant ones! They’re always so desperate to get caught.”

“But why?”

“Appreciation! Applause. At long last a spotlight. The frailty of genius, John. It needs an audience. This is his hunting ground,” Sherlock said, “right here in the heart of the city. Now that we know his victims were abducted, that changes everything. And all of his victims disappeared from busy streets, crowded places, and nobody saw them go.  _Think!_ Who passes unnoticed wherever they go? Who hunts in the middle of a crowd?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. Who?”

Sherlock shook his head. “…Haven’t the faintest,” he said after a moment. “Hungry?”

He popped inside an Italian restaurant. I followed and sat down across from him at the front table. A large bearded man came over to the table.

“Sherlock!” the man boomed, slapping Sherlock on the back.

“John, this is Angelo. Angelo, this is Dr. John Watson.”

Angelo looked at me, a grin on his face. “This man got me off a murder charge. Everything here is on the house!”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I successfully proved to Lestrade that during the time of a particularly brutal triple murder, Angelo was on the other side of London, housebreaking.”

Angelo's enthusiasm did not abate. “This man cleared my name!”

Sherlock huffed a tiny laugh. “I cleared it a bit.”

“I’ll get a candle for the table; it’s more romantic.” Angelo walked off.

I picked up my menu. “Not that I’m complaining, but what exactly are we doing here?”

Sherlock pointed out the window. I turned and followed his gaze. “22 Northumberland Street. I can keep an eye on it from here.” He waved a hand at my menu. “You might as well eat.”

“Are you going to eat?” I asked, eying his sharp cheekbones and thin face.

“I don’t eat while on a case. Slows me down.”

I raised my eyebrow at him, but his attention was out the window again. _We’ll see about that_ , I thought.

After I had ordered, I found myself studying Sherlock. He was intensely focused on the street outside. He was sitting perfectly upright and his hands were folded on the table. He didn’t stir when the waiter set my vegetarian lasagna on the table. I cut a bite, scooped it up, and held my fork under Sherlock’s nose. His eyes flicked over to me.

“Eat.” He started to protest, but I took opportunity of his open mouth and shoveled the food in. “Doctor’s orders.”

He sulked, but chewed obediently.

“Why don’t you want people to know that I’m your mate?” I asked after chewing my own bite.

He sighed. “I am used to people treating me poorly. I lack certain social skills, and people enjoy poking fun of me. It has been a long time since I was bothered by this. It is my fear that if people knew, they would treat you similarly.”

A feeling of warmth washed over me. “You mean, you want to protect me?”

Sherlock ducked his head, those sharp cheekbones red. “John, I’m not used having feelings. I have long regarded feelings as a hindrance. But since we mated, I have been experiencing feelings about you that I feel that I cannot and do not want to ignore. It is very…confusing.”

I reached over and laid my hand over Sherlock’s, silently reveling in that lovely buzz that starts up as we touch. “Lestrade mentioned that you ‘didn’t do emotions and feelings’. I have a theory on that, actually.”

“Hm?” Sherlock was rubbing his thumb lightly over the back of my hand.

“I have heard of mates sharing traits with one another. It’s usually a sign of a very powerful mating. Traits shared are generally something that the other mate lacks. So, perhaps you gained my sense of feelings and emotions. The only thing that confuses me, though, is that I don’t seem to have gained one of your traits.”

Sherlock cocks his head to the side, a sly smile on his face. “Are you sure about that?”

I raised my eyebrow at him as I took another bite of lasagna.

He let out a mildly irritated sigh. “Think back to the crime scene. Think about the things you saw, the things you said. Does anything seem…out of character to you?”

I reflected as I forced Sherlock to eat another bite. It suddenly struck me that I had been uncommonly…observant earlier while at the crime scene. I was a smart man, but I doubt that I would have normally noticed some of the things that I had. I glanced up at Sherlock, who was grinning at me. I just shoved another forkful in his mouth.

A few minutes later, he pointed across the street. “Look. There’s a taxi sitting at 22 Northumberland Street. A passenger is in the back. No one getting in, no one getting out. A taxi. That’s brilliant. Why is that brilliant?”

“So that’s the guy?” I asked, pointing with my fork.

“Don’t stare.”

“You’re staring.”

“We can’t both stare.”

Sherlock jumps up suddenly in a swirl of black wool. He starts out the door. I scramble to follow. I run out the door just in time to see the taxi pulling away and Sherlock nearly getting hit by a car. I reach him just as he stops on the sidewalk, his hands pressed to his temples and muttering to himself. It takes me a second to realize he has pulled up a mental map of London and is plotting a shortcut to reach the taxi.

And then he’s off, sprinting around corners and running up staircases. I hurry to follow. I can’t help but feel the thrill of the chase run through me, something I hadn’t felt since Afghanistan. We run across rooftops and jump across. At one point, I spotted the taxi passing by. I heard Sherlock snarl in frustration, but he continued running. I was just worrying about my endurance when we ran out of an alleyway and straight into the cab. Sherlock smacked the hood and it stopped. He yanked open the backdoor and his face fell.

“No, no, no! What are you, Californian? White teeth and a tan. Wrong!”

He glanced inside to find a very confused man with luggage that indicated that he was indeed from California.

“Sorry, are you the police?”

Sherlock somehow magicked  out a police ID. “Yes, police. Everything alright?”

The man in the taxi still seemed confused. “Yeah.”

Sherlock stepped back. “Welcome to London.” He slammed the door shut and walked a ways away from the taxi. I snatched the ID out of his hand.

“This is Lestrade’s,” I pointed out.

Sherlock shrugged. “I pickpocket him when he’s annoying. You can keep that one; I’ve got more back at the flat.”

I nodded at the taxi. “Pretty good alibi, being in a different country and all. So I guess it was just a normal taxi stopping at random.”

Sherlock nodded, then pointed at the taxi. The man in the back was now talking to a policeman. “Got your breath back?”

I nodded, and off we ran.


	5. Drugs Bust

I leaned heavily against the foyer wall of 221B Baker Street, trying to catch my breath. Sherlock was not much better off, but one look at me and we burst into laughter.

“That has to be the most ridiculous thing I have ever done,” I said after I could breathe properly again.

“And you invaded Afghanistan,” Sherlock added, a wild grin on his face. He glanced towards 221A. “Mrs. Hudson, Dr. Watson will take the room upstairs!”

“Says who?” I replied archly.

He grabbed my left hand. “Says this, and this,” he pecked me lightly on the lips, “and that.” He nodded over my shoulder.

I spun around just in time to hear the doorbell ring. I opened it to find Angelo from the restaurant standing outside.

“Sherlock texted me. He said you forgot this.” He handed me my cane.

I gaped at it for a second. “Thanks,” I muttered, shutting the door. I looked up to find Sherlock looking very smug.

The door to 221A opened, and Mrs. Hudson rushed out. “Oh Sherlock! What have you done?”

His face was serious in an instant. “Mrs. Hudson?”

She nodded her head towards the stairs. Sherlock rushed upstairs with me at his heels. He pushed open the door to find Lestrade lounging in an armchair, the pink suitcase open in front of him. Several officers were combing the kitchen for something.

“What are you doing?” Sherlock demanded.

“Well, I knew you’d find the case; I’m not stupid.”

Sherlock glared. “You can’t just break into my flat.”

“You can’t withhold evidence. And I didn’t break into your flat.”

“What do you call this then?”

“It’s a…drugs bust,” Lestrade replied.

I snorted. Sherlock spun towards me, a stricken look on his face. I just touched my fingertips to my temple. I knew from the mind meld that Sherlock had been clean for 10 years. Lestrade had gotten Sherlock clean with the promise to let him help with cases if he stayed that way.

Sherlock’s face relaxed a bit and he turned back to Lestrade. “I’m not your sniffer dog.”

“No, Anderson’s my sniffer dog.”

Anderson poked his head out of the kitchen, waving his gloved fingers at us with a snide expression on his face.

“Anderson, what are you doing on a drugs bust?” Sherlock said.

“Oh, I volunteered.”

“They all volunteered,” quipped Lestrade. “They’re not strictly speaking on the drug squad, but they’re very keen.”

“Are these human eyes?” Donovan appeared in the kitchen doorway.

“Put those back!” Sherlock growled.

“They were in the microwave.”

“It’s an experiment!”

“Keep looking guys!” Lestrade shouted into the kitchen. He glanced at Sherlock. “Or you can start helping me and I’ll stand them down.”

Sherlock glared at him. “This is childish.”

Lestrade glared back. “Well, I’m dealing with a child. Sherlock, this is our case. I’m letting you in, but you do not go off on your own.”

“What, so you set up a pretend drugs bust to bully me?”

“It stops being pretend if they find something.”

I stepped in between them. “Lestrade, he’s clean. He doesn’t even smoke.” I unbuttoned Sherlock sleeve and raised it to show off the nicotine patches stuck there.

Lestrade rolled up his sleeve in turn, eying me. “Neither do I.”

Sherlock growled as he fixed his sleeve.

“We found Rachel,” Lestrade said. “She was Jennifer Wilson’s only daughter.”

“Her daughter? Why would she write her daughter’s name?” Sherlock pondered. “I need to talk to her.”

“She’s dead. She’s been dead for 14 years. Technically, she was never alive. Rachel was Jennifer Wilson’s stillborn daughter.”

A confused look graced Sherlock’s face. “No…no, that’s not…why would she do that?”

“She was dying, Sherlock,” Lestrade said. “She thought of her daughter in her last moments.”

“But she didn’t just think of her daughter. She scratched her name on the floor. It took effort. It would have hurt.”

“You said that all the victim’s take the poison,” I said, looking at Lestrade. “What if he, you know, talks to them? Maybe he used the death of her daughter somehow?”

“Yes, but that was ages ago. Why would she still be upset?”

A deadly silence filled the flat. I scrubbed my face with my hand. Clearly Sherlock was new to this feelings thing. I looked up to find him looking back at me, confused.

“Not good?” He asked.

I sighed. “A bit not good, yeah.”

Sherlock stepped close to me. “But if you were about to be murdered, if you were in your last moments, what would you say?”

I shut my eyes, willing away the terrible images of war that just flooded my head. “Oh God, please let me live.”

I opened my eyes to find Sherlock extremely close to me, an apologetic look on his face. He ran a finger across my cheek, trying to smooth out the worry lines that had appeared. Lestrade cleared his throat behind us, and Sherlock stepped back. I glanced over at the kitchen, but none of the other Yarders had seemed to notice.

“Maybe she’s trying to tell us something?” I suggested.

“Isn’t the doorbell working?” Mrs. Hudson appeared at the top of the stairs. “You’re taxi’s here Sherlock.”

Sherlock glared at her. “I didn’t order a taxi. Go away.”

“Oh dear, they are making a mess up here,” she said to me.

“Everyone, shut up!” yelled Sherlock. “Don’t move, don’t breathe, I’m trying to think. Anderson, look away, you’re face is putting me off.”

“My face is?” asked Anderson, incredulous.

“Everyone quiet and still. Anderson, turn your back,” Lestrade ordered.

“Oh, for G-“

“Anderson! Your back, now!”

Sherlock looked off into space for a moment. I could see the cogs turning in his head.

“Oh! She was clever, clever, clever, yes. She’s cleverer than you lot and she’s dead. She didn’t lose her phone. She planted it on him. When she got out of that car, she knew she was going to her death. So she left her phone to lead us to her killer!”

“But how?” asked Lestrade.

It dawned on me. “Rachel. Jennifer Wilson’s life was in her phone. She had a Smartphone, probably with GPS. Rachel is the password.”

Sherlock looked a cross between ecstatic and wanting to push me up against the wall and kiss me. I watched as he visibly shook off the urge to do the latter. “John, on the suitcase, there’s a label. Read me the address.”

I went to look. “Uh, [jenny.pink@mephone.org.uk](mailto:jenny.pink@mephone.org.uk).”

Sherlock sat down in front of his laptop and typed in the email and ‘Rachel’ as the password.

“So we can read her email, so what?” Anderson’s scorn could be felt from the kitchen.

“Anderson, don’t talk out loud. You lower the IQ of the whole street.”

Sherlock pulled up the GPS section of the page. A loading screen appeared.

Mrs. Hudson rushed up the stairs again. “Sherlock dear, this taxi…”

Sherlock ignored her.

The map finished loading. “Sherlock, the phone. It’s here at 221B Baker Street.”

“How can it be here? How?” Sherlock looked pensive and annoyed.

Suddenly, his phone chirped. He pulled it out, a strange expression crossing his face.

“Sherlock, you ok?” I asked.

“Yeah. I’m going to step outside for a moment. Keep an eye on that map.”

He disappeared down the stairs. I watched him go, perplexed. I heard the front door close, so I went to look out the window. Sherlock was talking to a man outside. A man who was standing next to a taxi. I pointed this out to Lestrade, who looked unconcerned. I watched Sherlock climb in the cab. I moved to hurry down the stairs to catch up, but suddenly the world turned dark…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please continue to leave comments, kudos, and to bookmark and subscribe. :D


	6. Run

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay in posting. School is time consuming. Got a paper due next week, a test tomorrow, and two tests on tuesday. Blah. Anyways, please give kudos, feedback, comments, and please bookmark and subscribe. I appreciate all the feedback. ~Stef :D

A very loud siren pierced my slumber. I must have left my window open again. I attempted to smash my face deeper into my pillow to quell the wailing, but all I came into contact with was cold leather. I opened my eyes in confusion and found myself lying in the backseat of a police car. In the red and blue flashing lights, I could see Lestrade driving and Donovan riding shotgun, Sherlock’s open computer in her lap. The phone map was still pulled up and the phone appeared to be moving.

I tried to push myself into a sitting position, but my head throbbed and my vision swam. I let out a groan as I succeeded in getting upright.

“Alright there, John?” Lestrade glanced at me in the rearview mirror.

I scrubbed my face with my palm. “What happened?”

“Sherlock was drugged and taken by the serial killer. Pretty sure it’s that cabbie Sherlock was talking to outside your flat.”

“How do you know he was drugged?”

“Because you passed out for no reason.”

I caught Lestrade’s eye. “What?”

He sighed. “There is a relatively rare phenomenon in mated pairs: if one mate is knocked out or drugged, the other mate experiences the same effects. It’s rare in completely bonded pairs and pretty much unheard of in partially bonded pairs like you and Sherlock. The only reason I knew what happened is because I’ve experienced it firsthand.”

I quirked my eyebrow at Lestrade. He shrugged. “My mate works in the government. It happens.”

I let all this information soak in as Donovan directs Lestrade down a side street. “So I guess the whole Yard knows about us now?”

Lestrade winced. “Yeah.”

Donovan looked over her shoulder at me, but I glared at her, daring her to say something. She wisely turned back around in her seat.

A strange feeling swept through me, making me shudder. I could suddenly feel Sherlock in my head again. I felt his underlying panic underneath his grogginess.

“Sherlock’s awake,” I said. Lestrade nodded.

Donovan pointed at the computer screen. “It stopped. They’ve stopped moving. Hang a left here, Lestrade.”

Several minutes later Lestrade pulled to a halt outside two identical buildings that ran parallel to each other. As I climbed out of the car, I spotted a sign identifying the site as ‘Roland-Kerr Further Education College’. The taxi I saw outside the flat was parked directly in between the buildings. I wondered why the killer had chosen to come here, but the new part of my brain, the _Sherlock_ part reminded me that it was probably mostly deserted expect for the night cleaners, who left the doors unlocked.

Lestrade headed towards the right building. “Donovan, stay outside and keep watch. Come on, John, let’s go find your mate.”

He pushed open the door and we were greeted with the sight of a long hallway full of more doors on each side. I groaned, but chose the left side and began to pull doors open and look inside just as Lestrade did the same on the other side. I began to get more and more frantic as door after door offered up no Sherlock. I wrenched the next door open in frustration and the sight made my heart stutter. I walked inside the empty classroom to look out the window into the room in the other building, where Sherlock and an older bespeckled man were holding up identical white and pink capsules.  The man had no mating mark. I heard Lestrade rush into the room behind me and gasp at the sight. I saw the older man’s mouth move and Sherlock moved the pill closer to his mouth. My military training kicked in then. I spun around, grabbed Lestrade’s gun from his hands, opened up the window, lined up my shot, and fired.

The gunshot rang in my ears as I watched the cabbie crumple to the ground, blood soaking through his shirt from the hole in his chest. Sherlock spun around and looked out the window. I didn’t bother hiding; I knew he could feel me close by. His eyes locked with mine and I saw the panic melt out of his face. He disappeared out of sight, probably crouched by the cabbie. I heard him shout something, heard the cabbie shout back in pain. Then Sherlock was standing again. He glanced at me, then ran from the room. I pushed past Lestrade and ran down that long, long hallway. I burst out the front door to a startled Donovan. Sherlock appeared a second later, but hesitated at the sight of Donovan. I ran to him and he let me embrace him, touch him, melt into him. He rested his chin on my head and rubbed his hands down my back in a sign of comfort. No words were exchanged; it wasn’t necessary. I continued to cling to Sherlock even as I heard Lestrade come up to us, awkwardly hovering to the side.

Sherlock nodded his head in the direction of the left building. “Room 145.”

Lestrade rushes off, Donovan right at his heels. I can hear the sounds of sirens headed in our direction. Lestrade must have called the Yard.

I raise my head, dislodging Sherlock’s. I stand on tiptoe and place a gentle kiss to his lips. “What happened?”

Sherlock’s arms tightened around me. “The killer texted me, telling me to come outside. I had realized he was a cabbie just before that. I just wanted to talk to him and then turn him over to Lestrade. I was talking to him, trying to glean information when he jabbed me in the arm with a needle and pushed me into the cab. When I woke up, we had just pulled up here. He ordered me inside at gunpoint. We went into a room and he explained the whole thing. His whole ploy with these murders was a game of chance. He would pull out two identical-looking pills. One was a sugar pill; one would poison the person. He let victim choose one pill and he would take the other. He won that game 4 times in a row.”

“Where you going to take that pill?”

He shook his head. “I was biding my time. I felt you near and figured Lestrade was with you. He let some important information slip though. Apparently I have a fan.”

I looked up into his eyes, raising my eyebrow. “A fan?”

“Someone who follows my website and my work. He apparently ‘funded’ this serial killer. Every time he killed, my fan would send money to this man’s kids, who his ex-wife has custody of. He had an aneurism and was on borrowed time. He needed to give something to his kids.”

I sighed into Sherlock’s coat. He pulled off his gloves and ran his the pad of my fingers over my cheekbones. He slid his hands down to interlace his fingers in mine. I leaned my head on his shoulder and we stood like that, listening to the sirens.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realize that the cabbie's gun was fake in the series, but in my story, it was real. Also, I incorporated the drugging because in the pilot of "A Study in Pink" (which you can find on youtube) that was how the cabbie got Sherlock.


	7. Date

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, this chapter is short and sweet. I promise that the last one will be longer. And yes, I've already started mentally writing the next story in this series. If you have any requests or suggestions or comments, please let me know. I love feedback. ~Stef

Sherlock and I sat side by side in the back doors of the ambulance. He had already been checked out for any residual effects of the drug the cabbie shot him with. The EMT’s insisted that we sit here with our orange shock blankets so that they could monitor us for any latent shock. We were sitting shoulder to shoulder, our hands clasped underneath the blankets at Sherlock’s insistence. I had just rolled my eyes and complied.

Lestrade walked over, smirking lightly at us. “How are you feeling, Sherlock?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I’m fine. If it weren’t for John insisting I sit here, I’d have left.”

Lestrade turned his attention to me. “Did you get checked out?”

Sherlock’s head whipped around to look at me. I sighed and glared at Lestrade. “No.”

“What happened to you?” asked Sherlock, his eyes narrowing.

I sighed again. “When you were drugged, I passed out at the same time. I remained unconscious until just before you woke up. I didn’t hit my head or anything; Lestrade caught me before I hit the floor.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to retort, but I stopped him. “I am _fine_.”

Sherlock squeezed my hand under the blanket, but I lifted our hands up the rest on the blankets. “Everyone knows, Sherlock. No point in hiding now.”

He tensed up, but Lestrade spoke up. “Sherlock, no one honestly cares. I’ve already had a talk with Anderson and Donovan. If they bother John at all, I’ve told them that they will have to participate in one of your insane experiments.”

Sherlock’s face lit up at this. I just laughed.

A sleek black car pulled up outside the yellow crime scene tape that surrounded the area around us. I felt Sherlock tense up again. Mycroft Holmes climbed out of the car and walked over to us holding his ever-present umbrella.

Before Sherlock could say anything, Lestrade spoke. “Mycroft, what are you doing here? Where’s Darcy?”

I raised my eyebrow at this. Sherlock stood and walked over to Mycroft and Lestrade. I followed.

“I came to check on my little brother, Greg. I heard he got himself into a spot of trouble.”

Sherlock’s eyes swept up and down his brother’s frame. “Diet not going well, Mycroft?”

Mycroft rolled his eyes and placed his hand on his stomach. “The diet is unimportant at the time, brother.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened a fraction. “You are carrying this time? How long?”

Mycroft opened his mouth to speak, but surprisingly Lestrade cut in. “He’s 12 weeks Sherlock.”

My mouth opened in shock. I did not see this coming. “Oh.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes at me. “Please pardon John, he’s just put all the pieces together. So where is my niece?”

Mycroft tilted his head in the direction of the car. “Anthea is watching her in the car. She’s sleeping in her car seat. I’d better get back home now.”

Lestrade gave Mycroft a quick peck on the lips. “I’ll be home in a couple hours. I’ve got to wrap this up.”

Mycroft nodded and left.

After the car drove away, Lestrade turned to us. “I’ve claimed responsibility of shooting the cabbie. It’s generally frowned upon when another person uses an officer’s gun. Good shot, though, John.”

I nodded my head and he walked off.

Sherlock looked at me. “Hungry?”

I glanced at my watch. 1:30 am. “Are there any places around here still open?”

Sherlock grinned. “I know of a good Chinese place on Baker Street that’s open until 3.”

“Can we get takeaway? I would like to go back to your flat and relax.”

Sherlock nodded. “ _Our_ flat, John. And relaxing sounds…pleasant.”

I smiled at him as we walked towards the main road to find a cab that was hopefully not driven by a serial killer. “It’s a date.”

 


	8. Content

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so it is the end. Or the end of the beginning, if you'd like to think of it like that. I am going to start on work for my next story soon. It is currently untitled, but I promise that it won't stay that way for long. Please stay tuned good people of AO3! ~Stef

“Cannot.”

“I can too. Most of the time.”

“Sherlock, no one can predict fortune cookies.”

He just rolled his eyes as he hung up his coat and scarf. I set the takeaway boxes on the tiny section of the table not covered in graduated cylinders and test tubes and went to the bathroom to wash my hands.

When I returned, I found Sherlock draped artfully over the couch, his bare feet automatically moving to allow me to sit down. I handed him his box and a pair of chopsticks. He wiggled his toes underneath my thigh and I stroked a finger around his ankle bone with my free hand as we ate in comfortable silence.

I soon found myself yawning into my spring rolls. A glance at my watch told me that it was half two. “Is the bed upstairs made up?”

Sherlock set his empty box on the coffee table. “I believe Mrs. Hudson did so earlier, but you are welcome to share my bed.”

I considered this as Sherlock stood and walked to his room. I binned the takeaway boxes and grabbed my pyjamas from my bag, quickly changing in the bathroom.

I approached Sherlock’s open bedroom door. He was reclined on top of the covers, ankles crossed. He was dressed in a soft grey tshirt and pinstriped pyjama pants, and a copy of Gray’s Anatomy was open in his lap.

He raised his eyes to meet mine. “John, I promise that I do not bite. But by all means, continue hovering in the door frame,” he said slyly.

His words broke my spell and I climbed into the other side of the bed. Sherlock shifted closer to me so that our hips touched. I laid my head in the hollow of his shoulder.

“I thought you hated sleeping.”

“While I detest that my body requires such a…time-consuming activity, I still must sleep occasionally. Plus, I hoped that sleeping will help me spend time with you.” He smiled and returned to his book.

“What are you reading about?”

“Ebola.” He turned the page.

I chuckled at the strangeness of this man. I let myself be enveloped by his warmth and the pattern of his breathing. I barely registered the soft thump of his book being closed and the lamp being switched off. I felt myself be tipped gently onto my side. Sherlock spooned himself behind me, sliding his hand under my shirt so that our bond could grow while we slept. As our bond buzzed along our connected skin, I allowed myself to be content and sleep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P.S. Would you be interested in a document describing the rules of this whole AU that I have created? If so, let me know and I will make one. :D

**Author's Note:**

> I've been asked why Sherlock wants to keep the mating secret. I promise that will be revealed later, although the reason is not hard to guess.
> 
> I've added a link to a drawing of what John's bonding mark would look like after consummating of the bond (will come in later chapters). The internal colored ring is formed with initial soulmate contact. The outer spirals would appear after the consummating of the bond. http://loonypants1.deviantart.com/art/John-s-completed-Mating-Mark-318447217


End file.
